


Each Time

by hayvocado



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 3am Diner Dates, F/M, Frank is a Good Guy, I also insulted Foggy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, and karen, but you all came here for Frank so it hardly matters, so whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:25:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayvocado/pseuds/hayvocado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time, the second time, the third time, and the last time.  Maybe there'll be a next time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Each Time

**Author's Note:**

> An ex-Marine and a battered girl walk into a diner.

The first time you saw him, you didn’t really think too much about him.  

 

You were wandering the grocery store, putting together your pitiful dinner for one.  You barely had twenty bucks, and you were too tired to care about three squares a day any longer.  In your ratty sweatshirt and leggings, you meandered down the aisles, eventually stumbling upon the canned goods.   _Nutrition, right?_  You went straight to the clearance section, a few feet from him.  You tried not to notice him, you really did.  He just had such a _presence_.

He wore his black baseball cap low on his forehead, and he had the strut of a fighter.  Your dad had that walk too, that Marine Corps swagger.  It’s not so much a walk as it was a glide.  He was wearing a gray shirt, a black jacket, and dark jeans.

In any other situation, he’d look like the typical guy walking around Hell’s Kitchen.  In such a shitty city, bright colors weren’t particularly anyone’s go-to wardrobe choice.  The reason he stood out to you was the fact that he looked like he’d been thrown into a blender set on ‘chop’.

There were bloodstains on his shirt--that you’d barely managed to catch on such a dark fabric--and there were speckles of red sprayed across his face.  His knuckles, which had been holding up a chicken soup can for inspection, were bloodied and bruised.  He walked with what could almost be a limp, but the soldier inside made it look like a part of his saunter.

You’d found yourself staring at him out of the corner of your eye for far too long, holding up the canned clam chowder in front of you, pretending to read the label.  When he swiped half a dozen Campbell’s cans off the shelf and into his basket, you nearly jumped out of your skin, but you played it cool, settling the can back onto the shelf and moving towards the next section.

He moved past you to the end of the aisle and stood looking at something else you couldn’t see, and you tried your damnedest to act like a normal human being.   _He isn’t doing anything weird, just be cool._

When he finally left and walked down a different aisle, you released the breath that you’d forgotten you were holding.  You marched back over to the clam chowder, grabbed two cans, and made your way up to the register.  You almost tripped over your own feet halfway there.

He was in line.

You get right behind him, pretending not to notice him noticing you, even going so far as to pull out your phone and start ‘texting’ (you had 4% and you were literally just tapping at your lock screen).  His gaze felt heavy on you and you’d never wanted to escape such an innocent situation quite that badly.  He hadn’t done anything, he was just _staring_.

When it was finally his turn to be rung up, you nearly melted in relief.  The pimply cashier rang up his items (eight cans of chicken noodle soup, really?) and let out a nasally “would that be all for you this evening?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”  His voice was gravelly and monotonous. The exhaustion in his shoulders flowed through into his tone, and you wanted to feel bad for the man. He had that ‘seen some shit’ attitude, and you briefly wondered what that ‘shit’ could be.

He paid and grabbed the bags from the pizza faced cashier as the tween called out an adenoidal “have a nice night”. He strode out of the store and you stared after him for a good twenty seconds until realizing that you were next up.

 

*******

 

The second time you saw him, you noticed more about him.

 

You were walking past the diner with your arms wrapped around your shivering frame. It was pouring down rain, and your current state of distress did nothing to help. Your face was covered in both dry and not-so-dry tears, nose red and aggravated from sniffling and crying.

You’d just had the worst night of your life. A meet-up turned into a party turned into a drunken mess turned into something revolting and vile that left you half naked and sobbing in the corner of someone’s living room.

You saw the _open_ sign glowing dully in the foggy window, and a rush of hope flooded through your chest at the thought of getting something warm into your frozen body. Without even pausing to think about the money you didn't have, you pulled open the door, starting slightly at the ringing entryway bell.

Glancing around the small eatery, you take in the lone customer in the place. It was _him_. He looked a bit better this time around, though, and you felt a little happier inside, on his behalf. He was clad in what you’d come to assume was his go-to outfit: a shirt, coat, and dark jeans, topped off with a baseball cap.

You briefly wondered what caused a guy like him to end up sitting alone in a diner at three in the morning. Then again, you couldn't really talk.

Moving up to the bar, and seating yourself on one of the stools, you smiled shakily at the only waitress in the joint. She was a gentle looking older woman, with smile lines and crow’s feet. The bundle of curly grayish hair atop her head paired with the pen through it made you think of your mother, but not for long. No need for that shit to resurface.

The woman--her name tag said Alice--smiled sympathetically at you. She took in your battered state. You no doubt still had a red handprint on your face, and you could just barely feel the ghosts of those knuckles against your cheekbone.

“What can I get for you, hon?” Her voice was low and soft, a touch of a Jersey accent to it. You tried another grimace of a smile, and asked for the cheapest thing she had. “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee and some bacon and toast,” you went to protest, but she raised a hand to silence you. “No charge.”

Your entire face softened into a grateful look and she smiled back at you. “Thank you,” you breathed out. Your voice hardly worked, what with the finger shaped bruises decorating the skin of your throat.

Alice poured you a coffee and moved to the back kitchen area to begin getting your food ready. Your head dropped onto your crossed forearms as you breathed a heavy sigh. It took all of your self-control not to start sobbing right there. The clinking and clanging noises in the kitchen gave you something else to think about. After a few moments of self-loathing, you sighed heavily again.

You picked your head back up and raked your fingers through your hair, flinching at the way that the sensitive parts on your scalp began to throb all over again. Turning around on your bar stool, you stared through the dirty windows, out into the streets of Hell’s Kitchen.

A movement out of the corner of your eye brought your attention back to _him_. He was staring at you over the lip of his cup of coffee. He didn't look as mean or scary as the last time you’d seen him, but damn if he wasn't just _naturally_ intimidating. He just gave off such an intense vibe.

The two of you held eye contact for far longer than most strangers would dare to. “Rough night, huh?” He asked, his rough voice breaking through the static-like atmosphere abruptly, making you flinch slightly. You nodded slowly, rolling your eyes and taking a sip of your coffee.

“Understatement of the goddamn century,” you rasped out, throat still swollen from earlier. After your first few sips of the coffee, it stopped feeling like you were swallowing fire, and you started to warm up a bit. “Though what else is to be expected in Hell’s Kitchen?” You asked sarcastically with a wry smile shot his way.

You saw more than heard his chuckle, his chest jumping quickly. From what you could hear of the man’s laugh, you deduced that it was a nice noise, all grit and throat, but still honey coated. It made you smile more genuinely, ignoring the sting of the split in your upper lip.

He rose from his seat in the booth and slowly made his way over to you. Him and that damn soldier swagger. It was a lovely thing to watch, as if you were observing a dance performance. He glided effortlessly, and each muscle beneath his shirt could be seen, rolling and pulling as he came to sit beside you. He held a hand out in greeting, and you took it, shaking back.

“Frank,” he said softly.

“Y/N,” you responded even softer.

He smirked at you, but you could tell that that was just his version of a smile. His jaw tightened as he studied you, taking in your chaotic appearance.

“Anyone’s ass in particular you need me to kick?” It seemed jokey, but his eyes were genuinely angry. You tried to brush it off, shrugging.

“Too many to count,” Frank’s entire body stiffened and you frowned at yourself. Maybe those weren't the right words. You looked back up at him, lips in a thin line. “Forget I said anything,” you turned your eyes back towards the window, drinking your coffee. You could feel him staring at the side of your face and you shivered again.

You two sat in silence for another few minutes until Alice brought out your plate of jellied toast and bacon. You smiled warmly at her and give her a quiet but heartfelt “thank you” before picking up a piece of bacon and taking a bite.

You noticed Frank staring again out of the corner of your eye. He seemed to be looking you over, in a non-creepy way. Cataloging your injuries, you guessed. Eventually, he turned back forward in his seat, and drank his coffee.

You two didn't talk for the rest of the night.

 

*******

 

The third time you saw him, you trusted him.

 

You were walking your usual route home from yet another rough night at work. Having the nocturnal shift at a shady gas station in what is arguably one of the most dangerous cities in New York is a pretty tough job.

Earlier, a customer had literally thrown a beer can at you. He'd stumbled in, eyes bloodshot, clothing ripped, breath reeking of Budweiser. He had been yelling something about someone named “Sheila” and a car.

You'd tried to ignore it at first, hoping he'd go away after a while, but apparently, that only made him angrier. He ended up flipping a shelf, drenching you in booze, and punching you in the face.

Gotta love New York.

Lucky for you, Tony’s shift was just coming in, and let's just say that you've never not been grateful for bulky guidos helping you out. He helped you up and then you were shuffling your exhausted way back home.

A sound to your right caught your attention, and you paused for a moment, just long enough to panic a bit. The street was silent. You began speed walking, trying as hard as possible to remember all of that bullshitty self-defense stuff your cousin taught you at Aunt Lisa’s wedding.

Another loud clanging noise made your heart crawl into your throat. Walking faster, you tried to ignore the sound of heavy footsteps clomping behind you. You could feel your lungs and your calves beginning to burn. A stinging behind your eyes alerted you to the terrified tears that were ready to pour at any moment.

“Hey there, pretty,” a phlegmy voice rang out. You swallowed hard and kept going, pretending you heard nothing.  “Hey!”

Suddenly, you were being pressed up against a wall, a meaty forearm trapping your throat as a huge paw of a hand wrapped its way into your hair.

“‘Snot nice to ignore your admirers, baby,” he snarls, all too close to your face. The man’s breath made you want to wretch. It smelled of cigars, whiskey, and fucking garbage. His nose was pointed and gnarled, like a witch’s, and his teeth were yellowing and crooked. He had leathery skin and a ratty goatee. He towered what felt like miles above you, and his body was too broad for you to look around for help.

“P-Please,” you squeaked out pathetically. “ _Please_ let me g-go.”

“I don't think so, sweetheart.” The arm at your neck shifted so he was groping your breast. He let out a bone chilling cackle, and you started to cry. His grip on your hair tightened and you yelped, slapping at his torso with your balled up hands. The hand in your hair switched to wrap around your throat and you started to sob even harder, trying not to assist him in suffocating you.

“Tonight, you’re mine.” He swooped in and licked a stripe up the side of your face, hot breath fanning against the wet trail. You whimpered loudly and squirmed even more. Your hands started to claw at the hand around your throat.

“P-please, sir, I-” you were cut off by the abrupt sound of bone thumping into bone. His eyes rolled up into his head, and you cried out. He crumpled to the ground in a heap and you jumped to the side, horrified.

Frantically looking around, your eyes finally landed on your diner-date: _Frank_. You couldn't quite tell if you were glad to see him, but it didn't matter, because for the second time that night, a muscled Italian had saved your life.

You looked him up and down, not exactly sure what state he was in.

His chest was heaving and he looked a mess--not as if it were a surprise to you. His face had his usual amount of bruising and blood, as did his thick knuckles. He was wearing all black this time, a heavy vest--what you assumed to be kevlar--and rough cargo pants.

Frank was staring down at your attacker, fists still clenched, muscles still coiled. It took a moment for you to finally catch your bearings, but when you finally did, you croaked out your gratitude.

“Uh, thanks.”

He finally looked back up at you, and you could see his shoulders relax a bit. Those dark eyes immediately softened a hint and he looked you up and down, doing that cataloguing thing again. In the quiet, you realized that you were shivering--more like trembling--in the cold night air. He must have noticed it too because he finally snapped to.

“Don't mention it.” He ran a hand over his face and glanced back down at the limp bodied man at your feet. “Let's get you out of here.”

 

*******

 

The last time you saw him, it was on the news.

 

His face was plastered across the screen with the words “ruthless murderer” flashing beneath it. Frank Castle was the Punisher.

You’d had to put down your coffee and gawk for a minute or two, not quite believing what you were reading. You weren't sure how you hadn't guessed it. He always looked fresh out of a fistfight, he had that distinct military background...now that whole kevlar and cargo pants incident made a bit more sense.

There was footage of his court hearing that played, and you knew he’d be convicted. He had so much fucking blood on his ledger it didn't matter how good his lawyers were.

(To be honest, you’d doubted they would be any good. A blind dude, a blonde bimbo, and a sweaty oaf. What a team, Castle.)

He didn't seem the type to murder in cold blood, being a bit of a defender and all. Then again, you didn't know much about the man. You’d only met him in person three times. He'd saved your life one of those three times. Was he really the kind to just spit bullets at whoever pissed him off? You didn't think so.

He seemed pretty heroic to you, in the least comic-book-spandex-clad-cape-wearing superhero kind of way. He was an everyday hero, y’know?

Beating up potential rapists, helping a battered girl not feel like everyone was horrible, buying excessive amounts of chicken soup. He was so fucking average, but so extraordinary.

You hoped he’d break himself out or something.

_ He’d find a way. _

 

**Author's Note:**

> I realize the summary makes it seem a lot more sexual than it actually was. That, my friends, is what I like to call baiting.


End file.
